The Age of Sails

The night had been long and tumultuous, gale force winds had whipped the sea into a maelstrom of incredible scale, rogue waves had battered Khalista’s ship and nearly forced her beneath the waves while false sightings of her quarry had driven them further out into the empty sea.
Morning came with a unanimous sigh of relief, the sea had calmed and the suns golden rays brought both warmth and comfort to those aboard.

Men retired to their hammocks trading places with the stubborn few who had rested through the night. It would be hours until any sails would be spotted, and so they rested. By midday this peace was shattered.

“SAILS!” Cried Khalista’s eagle eyed Elven lookout, his voice carried across the sea by renewed winds. “IT’S A CARGO SHIP CAP’N! LOOKS ELVEN” Holding onto the mast the man leant out over the deck and pointed toward a distant speck, guiding Khalista’s eyes eastward. The character occupying her Crow’s Nest was a former slave and pit fighter, built like a brick shithouse the man had quickly made a name for himself as a fighter and a singer. A popular elf it was often the lookout who’d rouse the men into song and buy the first round whenever they made port.

OOC: As it turns out the follow up to this never sent.

Standing beside the woman was a well dressed, if a bit stereotypically piratical elf, striding forward he took the helm with a hand and roared to the crew. “FULL SAILS, THERE’S PREY ON THE HORIZON!”
The crew reacted instantly and with malicious on their lips they set to obeying the elf, within a minute the ship had begun to surge forward her sails bulging as they caught the winds.

Obviously proud of their reaction the elf straightened up and quickly gave himself a once over to check on his clothing. He wasn’t the tallest of people, though he made up for his lack of height with overwhelming fashion sense. His coat was made of the finest Escarian cotton, hit hat; a fine black tricorn unmarred by the weather. Beneath the coat he had yet more cotton, a pair of fine breaches protected his legs while a simple red button shirt and leather boots completed the outfit. He looked like he came from a play with how clean he looked, there was nary a scar on him nor was there a lick of dirt on his clothes.

“THEY SEEN US!” Declared the lookout with well rehearsed clarity. “THEY’RE TURNING AWAY!”
The captain huffed and visibly slouched, causing his coat to wrinkle. Taking hold of the helm with a second hand he looked back to Khalista momentarily, silently asking permission to give chase to their quarry.

The woman he defers to is dressed just as piratical as he is, only from a decade ago. Instead of breeches and stockings, she wears baggy pantaloons, tucked into wide cuffed calf boots. A sword belt is partially covered by her long coat. The heavy cloth was once dyed a dark green, but has faded to near-black grey. The gold thread picking out its epaulets and cuffs, however, is new.
She steps up to the rail, ahead of the helmsman. She adjusts Her wide hat, a pair of black ostrich feathers fluttering in the wind of the ships speed. “Roll out the guns, you sons of bilge curs! Tighten the sheet, rifles to the tops! Move, move! You scabberous dogs!” As the men set to their tasks, she tips back her head, puts one boot up on the rail, and laughs uproariously, a hand upon her sword’s hilt.

Shaking his head the elf rolled his eyes and pulled hard on the helm, in an instant the quiet whine of wood grew louder as its rudder strained against the undercurrent to bring the vessel about. A lash of wind whipped the womans face as her ship turned, threatening to whisk her hat away should it grow stronger. Still the vessel moved ahead, and in the distance the once small speck of white slowly grew larger as she grew ever closer.


However in the distance, yet unseen by either vessel stood a third ship. Her hull was a pale verdegris, while her gundecks had been painted a dark green. Her black sails stood out heavily in the clear waters, but with nobody to focus on her the huntress crept forward undetected. Her crew worked in relative silence, their voices kept low so they wouldn’t carry across the waves.

“Show them the chasers! Shots to the port and starboard, and run up the colours!” Pointed teeth glint between lips of imperial purple, painted, contrasted against Carmine red skin.

The colours are hoisted up the mast, a screaming, horned skull of crimson haloed by a white sun, upon a field of black. It is a fearsome image, the skulls teeth bared, in anger or pain it is difficult to know. Perhaps the white sun is consuming it, it’s roar one of agony. Or perhaps it is a figment of the skulls own creation, a weapon to be turned upon the enemy who has inspired such rage.

The ship is a sleek war vessel. A razee. The result of a ship of the line, damaged or obsolete, being cut down by a deck to improve its handling. The donor ship was a third rate ship of the line, it’s two decks of guns cut down to one. The resulting frigate has a far stronger hull than any purpose built frigate, and far better handling than any full sized ship of the line. She sacrificed weight of shot for these advantages, however.

Two thunderous explosions soon followed her orders, the sound reverberating along the hull as her bow chasers sending a pair of ‘light’ balls hurtling across the ocean. Now blinded by the two great plumes of smoke all ears turned toward their premier lookout, who up until this point had been shouting orders of his own to the men working the sails. “TWO MISSES, PORT AND STARBOARD!” He bellowed dutifully “LOOKS LIKE THEY’RE GONNA KEEP RUNNING!”

The crew cheered loudly upon hearing this, nothing stirred the blood more than the thunder of their guns or the clash of steel. Already many were working on helping to load the bow chasers, their collective noise drowning out any further cries.


OOC: RIP thread